


I've Just Seen A Face

by bannanachan



Series: I've Just Seen a Face [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bannanachan/pseuds/bannanachan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanaya Maryam, globetrotting fashion designer, has been many places, done many things, and been with many women. She never puts down roots, she never gets too invested, and she certainly never falls in love.<br/>Well. Almost never.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Just Seen A Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kindlyclears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindlyclears/gifts).



New York, NY: May 2012

“When did you come here?”

You look up from your coffee and the first thing you see is lavender eyes. They are utterly shocking. So is the comment.

You clear your throat. “I beg your pardon?”

“I asked when you came here.” Says the girl with the lavender eyes. She nods to your hijab.

You are irked, but rather unsurprised. “Last week. Via Heathrow.” You try to overemphasize your Londoner accent and perfect English. You feel this effort is largely unsuccessful, but it seems to intrigue her. She sits down across from you and sets her coffee on the table. You do not object.

“I’m Rose Lalonde.” She says. “I’m a grad student in psychology at NYU. I’ve always lived here. But I visited India last summer.”

It is at this moment that you realize that this girl is trying to pick you up.

You take a sip from your drink and look right at her. “I’m Kanaya Maryam.” You say. “My parents are from Iran, but they moved to London before I was born. I’m visiting New York to see the fashion scene here – I’m a designer.”

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/151948869@N02/36779681541/in/dateposted-public/)

She smiles. Her skin and hair are pale and her mouth is tight. Not like she’s hiding displeasure, or expressing stress, but like she has a secret – a hundred secrets – and if you’re very lucky, and very careful, you may be able to learn half of them.

Rose Lalonde is, in fact, so beautiful that you stay with her for two months.

***

Your first date (not counting the coffee shop) you go out to a movie and dinner. The restaurant is an Italian place called Ostera Morini, and is more expensive than you’d expected her to choose. The movie is called “Hysteria”, and by the end of it you are a little enraged and very turned on. This is when you find out that Rose’s state of mind involves being both of those things pretty much all the time. This is also when you find out just how awful she is.

She asks as soon as your orders have been taken. “Do you wear it at home?”

You do not have to ask to know she is asking about your hijab. “No, I don’t.” You reply, polite but curt. “Hijab is part of keeping modesty in front of men. When I am alone, or with my father and mother, or among women only, it is not necessary.”

“Do your mother and father know that you are a lesbian?”

“Yes.”

This answer surprises her. You smile at that. “They care only that I am happy. It took them a little while to come around after I came out, but then, isn’t that the case for everyone?”

“Not me.” She says, and it is your turn to be surprised. “My parents are lesbians, too.” She explains, and she actually seems a bit sheepish for having (sort of) deceived you. “They had me through a sperm donor. I’ve never met him, at his request, but they did once. He was gay too, as I understand it, so perhaps it’s in my genetics.”

You smile a little at that. “I’m not certain yet whether I believe it is wholly a genetic phenomenon, but that is quite a coincidence.”

Her eyes light up. “I suppose – there’s a lot of different ideas. Some philosophers think it’s entirely socially constructed, but I don’t know – I’ve never felt it would even be possible for me to be attracted to a man. Although the stigma is constructed. It often has to do with religion. I’m sure you know the Qur’an forbids homosexuality.”

“So does the Bible, but there is always room for interpretation. There are a great deal of gay Muslims just as there are gay Christians. And neither text actually takes a stance on women’s homosexuality.”

“But they do speak about women’s roles.”

“Muhammad gave women rights of property ownership, education, marriage, divorce, and inheritance, and his wife Khadijah was a businesswoman. The Qur’an says that women and men are equal in God’s eyes and come from one soul. The Bible says woman came from man’s rib.”

She raises one eyebrow and you are instantly infuriated that she can actually perform such a gesture. “Do I seem Christian to you?” She asks.

“No. I am simply trying to illustrate a point. Islam is no more oppressive in its own right than any other religion, and much is always up to interpretation. It is man’s laws that create problems for women.”

“So you do feel that there are problems?”

You are getting exasperated. “You say that as if you have won an argument. I am not blind to the world because I am Muslim, Rose. In fact, I suspect I see a great deal more of it than you. There are many good women, Islamic women and Christian women, who are fighting for human rights and social justice all over the globe. I know them. I have met them. And none of them have ever tried to flirt with me by asking about my hijab.”

This silences her until your food arrives.

Five bites into her eggplant parmesan she speaks again. “Michael Foucault said that we become complicit in our subjectification and participate in the hegemonic order through adoption of subject positions.”

“So?”

“So, I just don’t think there’s any way to know when you’re doing something because you really want to instead of because you’re supposed to.”

You shrug. “Maybe there’s not. In which case, I prefer to do the things I feel good about and not overanalyze it.”

Then Rose does something you do not expect: she laughs. And it’s not the same as her smile, no devilishness or secrets or even subtlety. She just laughs, with such genuine joy that you are not even sure it’s the same person that was sitting in front of you a moment ago.

“You’re probably right.” She says. “Still, you can’t blame a psych major for trying.”

It is her laugh that convinces you that a second date with Rose Lalonde would not be so bad.

***

You do not reschedule your flight back to London because she has completely won you over. It is not because you have forgiven her for her insensitivity and it is not because she intrigues you. It is not because understanding Rose has become a project. It is not because you have fallen madly in love. It is because she does something so unexpected that you can’t help but accept.

You reschedule your flight back to London because Rose invites you to meet her parents.

You are twenty-four, and travel a lot, so it has been a very long time since you met the parents of one of your lovers. Even as a teenager, you rarely brought your girlfriends home: though your parents were accepting, they weren’t that interested. There’s also the fact that Rose has talked to you about her family very little. You know her biological mother is named Roxy, and that she works for NASA and makes a lot of money. You know her other mother is named Jane, and that she owns a moderately prosperous bakery. You have inferred that her parents’ success in life makes Rose feel strangled with pressure at times, but you have not said this to her face. You know that they got married once it became legal in New York, and you have seen some pictures of the wedding. But that is about it, and thus you have absolutely no idea what to expect at this visit. This is especially true given that the house’s distance means you will be spending the night – a proposition that unnerved you at first, but Rose talked you into compliance. You cannot quite remember how, which unnerves you further.

Rose picks you up at your hotel a little past noon. The house you are going to is a ways out from New York itself in a place called Rainbow Falls out in the woods – as Rose explains, her parents wanted to raise her away from the big city, and they are both usually capable of working from home nowadays since Jane no longer runs the bakery she owns. You spend most of the four-hour drive listening to CDs and the radio rather than talking, but it is a rather companionable silence. You feel more comfortable around Rose than you usually do around girls who you’ve only known for two weeks, which is a pleasant change, if unsettling.

Eventually, Rose parks. “We’re here.”

This is odd, given that as near as you can tell you’re in the middle of nowhere, but you get out of the car anyway. Immediately, you become too stunned to walk by the sight of the house. You realize quickly that Rainbow Falls is not the name of a town and is in fact the name of the massive waterfall rushing a few yards away from you, on top of which is situated a place that’s towering and sprawling at once, modern as you’ve ever seen, and completely white, illuminated on all sides by floodlights pointing at the sky. You had realized that the Lalondes made money. You did not realize it was this much.

It takes you a moment to notice Rose, smiling at your bewilderment. You blush a little, embarrassed. “It’s a very nice house.”

Rose shrugs and begins to lead the way along the walkway between the forest ground and what seems to be the porch. “It’s home.”

You wonder if you can ever really touch a girl who grew up in a house like this.

The door is answered within approximately fifteen seconds of Rose ringing the bell, faster than you would’ve expected in a house so big. The woman who appears in the doorway is probably about sixty with graying blonde hair, a nice cocktail dress, and a smile that reaches almost every corner of her face. You recognize her to be Roxy from the wedding photos, and immediately feel a sense of gravity: from what you’ve heard and seen, this woman is a genius, someone not to be trifled with, especially if you happen to be dating her daughter.

This impression is immediately shattered when you see her launch into an embrace with Rose, throwing her arms around her daughter’s neck with such ferocity that a bit of liquid in her cocktail glass is spilled onto the floor. “Rosie, my love, it’s so good to see you!” She croons, and her voice is higher pitched and more whiny than you’ve ever heard on anyone over age twelve.

Rose makes a face and squirms out of her mother’s embrace as soon as Roxy seems amenable to letting her go. “I saw you a week ago, Mom.”

“Oh, please, let a woman have her moment to mother. It’s not like I get the opportunity that often. And who’s this lovely lady?” Her eyes shift to you, and you blush a little bit again, unnerved by the attention despite yourself.

“This is Kanaya, Mom. I told you about her on the phone, didn’t I?” Rose speaks with the air of someone who’s had conversations like this one hundred times.

“Hey, I was just trying to give the poor girl a chance to introduce herself, all right?” Roxy laughs and stands aside in the doorway, making a sweeping gesture with one hand even as the drink wobbles in her other. “Come in, come in, have a seat. Dinner’s just about ready, everything’s all set up for you two, we’ve been looking forward to this all week. Do you want a drink, sweetie? Kanaya?”

“Of course. I’d never pass up an expensive glass of wine at my mothers’ expense.” Rose replies, smirking as she follows her mother into the house.

“No thank you, Mrs. Lalonde.” You say, feeling a bit lost for words. “I appreciate the courtesy, but alcohol is strictly haraam – for me to drink would be sinful.”

Roxy smiles at you over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Heck, I don’t touch the stuff myself. Not that I don’t like it, but well, let’s just say I used to like it a little too much. I’ll just bring some nice sparkling cider. And please, call me Roxy, you don’t need to be so formal.”

You do not know what you were expecting, but you are reasonably certain this wasn’t it.

You and Rose sit down at a dinner table that is maybe half the size of what you would expect in a dining room this large and a house this rich. There’s room for just about four people. Then again, there’s only two people living here. She smiles at you from across the table, a look you think is meant to be reassuring. It helps slightly.

“Comfortable, Kanaya?” Asks Roxy.

You nod and smile, trying not to look nervous. “Very much so. Thank you for inviting me here. It’s a very nice house.”

“Goodness you’re polite! Well, we’re glad to have you. Rosie doesn’t bring girls around often, it’s a nice change. If you don’t mind, I’m off to the kitchen to get my daughter some wine and help my wife with the food.” Roxy replies, and waltzes off into the kitchen with a slight curtsy, hand waving and drink spilling as she goes.

You look back to Rose – she shrugs. “She gave up drinking before I was born, but she likes looking like a housewife. I’ve never really understood why, given she has a job with NASA and a wife and it’s not the 1950s. It bothered me when I was younger quite a lot, actually.”

It occurs to you that Rose has never spoken about her childhood to you. It also occurs to you, belatedly, that Roxy’s comment about Rose not having girls over often is a bit odd, but it’s also loaded, so you save that thought for later and focus on the former.

“What was it like? Growing up here?” You ask quietly. This is not territory you are certain you’re allowed to tread in, but you are not sure when a better opportunity would be.

“For me? Fine, I guess.” She looks contemplative for a moment. “It was boring at times. My moms were worried that I might not have a full childhood experience where I could see my friends all the time or do every after-school activity, since the closest town is 40 minutes away, but I… didn’t usually want to. I suppose I was sort of a problem child. If you consider being bored with everyone else your age a problem.”

Rose Lalonde does not break open, or even crack, but you are not clueless enough to misunderstand. Nor are you stupid enough to be explicit.

“Little girls are cruel, sometimes.” You say. “When you wear a hijab, and like the school garden better than the playground. I take solace in the fact that they all want to wear my clothes now.”

She laughs, and it’s warm and genuine and kind, the kind of laugh that got you to stay with her. And here in her mothers’ house, in dim dining room lighting, you feel you are seeing Rose Lalonde for the first time – for all of her lavender eyes and icy flirting, this girl is made of light. She is human and sarcastic and at times unstable, with stories of an awkward adolescence and parents who are embarrassingly doting as well as rich. You realize that perhaps you got the wrong first impression, and although you cannot be blamed when she carries on how she does, you feel embarrassed for it. You begin to understand the instinct that has kept you going on dates with her for two weeks despite every comment, every backwards insult, every question about your faith. You are reluctant to call it love, because you move around too much to fall in love. But you find that you care about this girl.

“Girls?”

You turn around. In the doorway to the kitchen, you see Roxy and a woman who you recognize must therefore be Jane standing, Roxy holding a glass of wine for Rose along with a tall glass of something slightly more bubbly and slightly more golden which you assume to be your cider.

Jane scooches out from behind her wife and brushes her hands on her apron to extend a hand. “Kanaya Maryam, right? I’m Jane Crocker. Rose’s Mom. Other Mom. I’m sorry I didn’t meet you at the door, but before I get back to cooking, I just wanted to say hi and thank you so much for coming over – we’re not exactly local, I know. But please, do make yourself at home while you’re here for the night. We’ve got plenty of space for you, as you can plainly see.”

You stand to shake her hand, feeling considerably more relaxed than you did an hour ago. “Thanks, Jane. I’m happy to be here. Please, let me assist with dinner however I can – do you need help carrying things?”

Jane waves her hands. “Oh shucks no, dear! You’re a guest, I couldn’t possibly –”

“No, I insist.” You take the glasses from Roxy’s hands and put them on the table in front of your and Rose’s spots. Rose looks at you quizzically, but you just smile and turn back to her parents. “I know I am your guest, but you are my girlfriend’s family, and I want to help.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rose’s jaw drop at the word ‘girlfriend’. But somehow, you experience no discomfort with the label yourself.

Jane smiles almost from ear to ear. “Well! Let’s just get to work then.”

Dinner is approximately as good as the best you have ever bought in a restaurant, and you spend perhaps fifteen minutes showering Jane with praise. She only ever laughs modestly in response, but Rose whispers to you that she probably actually appreciates it. Jane hears anyway, because by this point, Rose is drunk enough that she has lost much of her usual subtlety. When you are finished, Jane and Roxy ask where you would like to be for the night. They end the list of options with “Rose’s room” and you blush very quickly.

“Thank you, Roxy, but I am not sure about that.”

Roxy waggles her eyebrows. “Don’t worry about it, honey – it’s alright if you really don’t want to, but don’t be modest on our part. She’s twenty-two, after all.”

“Roxy!” Jane exclaims, and nudges her wife with her elbow. Roxy only laughs.

Rose goes alone to her bedroom that night while you sleep in a small but neatly furnished guest room, a situation to which neither of you object. Meeting her parents is one thing, but you are not sure about sleeping with a girl for the first time in the house she grew up in.

***

You understand just under a week later what was going on when her parents spoke about Rose not having many girls over.

For all that she is beautiful, a decent flirt, sarcastic, charming, enchanting, Rose Lalonde is so inexperienced in bed that for a moment you worry she might be a virgin. She is too nervous taking off your veil to even harass you over it, and not once does she ask what Islam says about sex before marriage (the answer is not flattering to you, but some things you can’t help but make compromises about). Her nails are so long when she runs them down your back and her tongue is so sloppy when she puts it in your mouth that you are tempted to not even ask her to pleasure you tonight, tempted to just control, but when she takes off her shirt and bites your neck you cannot help yourself, so you ask her to get your vibrator (top drawer, right next to the bible, as always when you travel) and make it work. You put one hand over hers to guide her towards your clit while you work the other slowly over and around her breasts, down her stomach until it reaches the right place and her face lights up. She makes too much noise and her faces are strange and it all makes you desperately hungry, desperate to take her, desperate for her to take you. She comes first, and you are almost as ecstatic seeing her face as you are with the vibrations pressing into you, making you convulse, making you electric, making you groan perhaps louder than she did and lean into it and jam your hand onto hers until you finally get it right.

You are both breathing heavy when you’re done, holding hands side-by-side and leaning up against too many pillows when she speaks.

“I could come with you.”

Still panting, you turn your head to look at her. “What?”

“Back to London. Or wherever it is you’re going.” She smiles. “I could quit college. Or maybe just get my degree somewhere else. Immigrate to a country with socialized medicine and more than two political parties. It would be nice.”

You smile, turning your gaze to the ceiling. “It would be inconvenient. For both of us.”

“But it would be nice.”

You sigh. “I suppose it would.”

“Or you could stay.”

You laugh. “Not in a million years, sorry. Your parents are nice, but I think I’ve had enough of New York for now.”

She sighs back and snuggles up closer to you. “Your call. But I’m just saying. Leave your options open.”

You smile. “Good night, Rose.”

“Mmm. Good night.”

A few minutes later, when she is mostly asleep, but you are not, she says what you had hoped she would not.

“Love you.”

You say nothing, but hold her hand tighter.

Three weeks later, she drives you to the airport.

***

In years to come, Rose will be the most reliable penpal you’ve ever had. You write one or two paper letters each at first out of sentimentality, but you quickly realize that international shipping is rather too prohibitive for this even if you do both make some money and switch to email. The story of your correspondence will go on for over twenty years. In this time, Rose will graduate and get a job that is not as impressive as either of her mothers’ first jobs, but is decent enough. She will get into contact with her biological father through an instant message sent by her half-brother, and although her relationship with the former will always be rather limited, her relationship with the latter will grow rather close. She will proceed along her career ladder successfully and rapidly until she stalls in her late thirties when an unexplainable dissatisfaction will convince her to have a child, which she does. She raises him alone and he is not as smart as she was when she was young, but Roxy and Jane are quick to ensure her that this is probably a good thing, for her sake. She will travel a great deal, but she will never find a place she likes as well as she likes New York.

When you are a little over fifty, you will decide that it is well past time you started your own clothing company. You have the money, you certainly have the ambition, and you believe you have the fame to pull it off too. And although London’s fashion scene is impressive, you decide that New York will be an appropriate place to base it. Such it is that you and Rose find yourselves seeing each other again in person for the first time in all those years seated in the very same coffee shop where you met. You feel that you must both glow when you lay eyes on her – she is older, yes, but no less beautiful, even more radiant in person than on camera. Sitting there chatting, you begin, helplessly, to reminisce about old times, and when Rose lets slip that the month and a half you spent together still stands out in her mind as one of her best relationships, despite all odds, you find you do not disagree. Two months later, her son, now in college, is more than a little surprised to find out his mother is getting married for the first time in her fifties to her penpal. But he warms up to the idea eventually.

San Salvador, El Salvador: September 2012

In retrospect, you think it is surprising that you and Vriska Serket ever met. She was different than you in almost every feasible way – your backgrounds, your personalities, your interests were so far apart that at times you felt like the gap was too great and you would never be able to fully reach her. But you’re glad it happened, because you have been so many places, done so many things, and loved so many women, and you have never, ever wanted to save any of them quite so much as you wanted to save Vriska.

You run into her at a grocery store. She is screaming at one of the clerks in Spanish.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/151948869@N02/36523000020/in/dateposted-public/)

“¿Cómo has podido hacerme esto? No eres nada sin mi, ¿sabes? Y sabes que, no me importa si me dejas. Soy la mejor chica que podrías desear tener y te consta. Nadie quiere tener nada que ver contigo. Mierda despreciable, eres nunca sin yo. Vas a suplicar a volver de una semana, esperas. A mi no necesito tu, tu necesitas yo, ¿comprenda? Voy a estar bien. Buena suerta en encontrar una otra amante, perro. ¡Carajo!”

You do not make a habit of interfering in what look to be deeply personal affairs, but the rest of the staff and everyone at the store seems paralyzed and the clerk himself looks like he is about to die. You leave your cart in the middle of the aisle and march over. You put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, at which she whips around and literally hisses at you.

“Se echa atras, perra. Nada de esto es te asunto.” She snaps. You do not understand much Spanish, but are aware she is calling you a bitch. This does not deter you.

Slowly, you speak as well as you can. “Chica. Nosotros aqui somos intentando a comprar. Por favor no haga esto aqui.”

She looks like she is about to explode on you, but before she can, you hear another voice.

“Vriska.”

You both turn back. The cashier has raised his voice, and is standing trembling behind his cash register. “Don’t do this here. Not now. Please. We can, uh, talk later. But there’s, a lot of people, here, and I don’t feel comfortable about it.” He speaks in English, accented, and you realize he is trying to make his statements private.

Vriska looks for a moment like she is about to jump on him. Instead, after a second, she screams, tugs at her hair, spits at him, and runs out of the store crying.

Inexplicably, you leave your groceries and follow her.

You find her sulking in a corner of the parking lot, arms on her knees, head bent down, her long black hair obscuring your view of her. You sit down next to her and she says nothing.

“Do you understand English?”

She nods. You wait a moment for her sobbing to die down a little.

“Was he your boyfriend?”

She chuckles. “What do you care. Sure, I guess. He was a worthless loser. That’s all you need to know.”

“I’m sorry.”

She scoffs and spits on the ground. “Why?”

“Because it hurts. Even if he was a worthless loser.”

She laughs again, but there are tears in her eyes. “He was just a stupid little baby. I don’t know what I was thinking being with him.”

You decide that it would be a good idea to walk Vriska home.

***

You are in her apartment with the fan blowing hard and it is still almost too hot and humid to breathe. Your hijab is draped on the back of the chair you are sitting in; so is your shirt.

You have not moved this fast with a girl since high school. You actually are not certain you’ve moved this fast with a girl ever, certainly not one who you met in a grocery store trying to keep her from tearing an ex-boyfriend to shreds. But she’d invited you in for coffee and you didn’t want to refuse and the conversation got sidetracked and she asked if you’d had a boyfriend and you said no, you didn’t date boys and she said she usually didn’t either but she’d been with him for a while and that she missed kissing girls and for some unfathomable reason you asked if she’d like to rectify that and then you were half-naked on her living room floor.

You stopped because you realized the coffee must have gotten cold by now.

She returns to the living room with two mugs fresh from the microwave and a tray with cream and sugar. “It’s pretty shitty compared to what you’re used to. Sorry.”

You raise your eyebrows. “What kind of coffee do you think I’m used to?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know, something made with an espresso machine and fresh-ground beans or whatever it is rich people drink.”

“What makes you think I am a rich person?”

“You have a British accent, so you probably flew here.” She says. “Also you were buying groceries in a yuppie store. Also half the tourists who come here do it for the good coffee, which this isn’t. What, am I wrong?”

“No.”

She laughs. You have heard that laugh probably less than 10 times and you are already getting annoyed with it. “Knew it. What the hell are you doing here, rich girl?”

“Looking for inspiration and finding customers – I’m a clothing designer.”

“You’re looking for inspiration here? Buena suerte, chica. Not much here to be inspired by.”

“You shouldn’t say that about your country. This is a beautiful place.”

“Try living here. There’s gang wars, or didn’t you know?”

“There’s also constant war in the Middle East, but it is beautiful there too. I am not ashamed of my home.”

She scoffs. “Please, bitch, your home is a swanky flat in the UK, don’t pretend like it’s not. You haven’t seen a warzone in your entire privileged life.”

You are getting angry now and it slips into your voice. “I suppose you have?”

“Yes.”

You start and look over to her. She isn’t laughing now, just staring at the wall, a deep, bitter, and gritty anger that came out of nowhere held in her face and posture. “Two of the leaders, they signed a truce a few months ago sitting around in jail. Now they are backing off, wanting peace again. But nobody knows, and nobody believes in it. Everyone thinks the gang members are just dogs, que no son humanos, pero sólo porque sean criminales no significa que todos sean perros. Ellos tienen derechos. Yo partí hace un año but they were my friends and it isn’t right how they talk about it.”

You are stunned, unsure what to say. The only thing you can think of is the first thing that comes out of your mouth. “I did not think women participated in that.”

“More or less no. But there are exceptions. Girlfriends, sisters, people like me who act like the boys. No one with something to lose.”

“Why did you leave?”

For a second or two, she seems unsure how to respond to that, just continues to stare at the wall with a very complex expression. “I didn’t see the point any more.” She finally responds. “I’m not sure there ever was a point.”

“I’m sorry.” You say, and mean it.

“What for? You’re a tourist.”

“Because you are not sorry.”

Her posture tightens and she spits on the ground. “Perra. You know nothing.”

You finish your coffee in silence and thank her for the drink. She mumbles “your welcome” and, even though you aren’t all that comfortable with what just happened, you ask for her number and receive it.

“Careful though, chica.” She adds on your way out the door. “Hitting on every pretty girl you meet is not safe here.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

Vriska’s advice turns out not to be applicable. After all, why would you hit on another girl when you’ve got her around?

***

The day after you meet Vriska you realize that meeting her deterred you from successfully purchasing your groceries and decide to return to the store. You are pretty sure you won’t see her there again so you don’t see why not to go to the same place.

You are surprised when you find yourself at the checkout facing Vriska’s ex-boyfriend.

He is as startled as you when he recognizes you. “Oh, uh, hi again.” He says. “Thanks for, the other day, stepping in like that.”

“No trouble at all.” You insist. “Honestly, I didn’t help much – you were the one who stopped her.”

“I guess that’s, true.” He says as he begins to scan items. “But actually, I could never really stand up to Vriska, without help, so even if it was a little bit, I’m glad, you were there. I get to keep my job, my supervisor says, but not if it happens again, so I’m kind of, nervous, about that.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” You say, although you decide it is probably wise not to elaborate on why.

“Yeah, I don’t think, it’ll actually be a problem, because she probably doesn’t, want to see me any more. But I could never really, predict her, so I don’t know.”

“She does seem like an unpredictable person.”

He shakes his head and makes a face. “That’s true, generally, but it’s also something, about me with her, I think. I could never really, be what she wanted me to be, even though, we were both trying. But I don’t think that I’m nothing, without her, so uh, I guess I learned something, at least.”

You nod politely, take your groceries, and leave the store more confused than ever about what you are getting yourself into.

***

You text Vriska for about a week and get almost no responses – the ones you do receive are curt. Eventually, you just make a call.

She picks up on the third ring. “Aló?”

“Vriska? It’s Kanaya.” You say.

“Oh. Buenos días. You need something?”

“Not precisely. I was wondering if you wanted to go out together tonight?”

“You mean like at a restaurant?” She laughs; it’s even more annoying over the phone. “Thanks for the offer, chica, but I don’t have the money to go to your kind of place.”

“I’ll pay for you, then.” You insist. “And we don’t have to go somewhere nice. If you don’t want to.”

“Makes no difference to me if I’m not paying.” She says. “But sure, I haven’t got anything else planned. There’s a pretty nice place called Hacienda Real in Old Cuscatián. We can drive there in my car.”

“No need – I have a rental. Meet me in the lobby of the Villa de Angel hotel at six.”

Several hours later, you are waiting by the doors with your phone out to check the time when Vriska arrives. She’s about fifteen minutes late, which you sort of expected, and is dressed fairly well in a blouse and skirt that reaches her knee, which you didn’t expect at all. She looks to have even made an attempt at taming her mane of black hair – to moderate success at best, but still, pulled back in a ponytail it’s harder to tell.

You show your cards by the width of your smile when you see her. “Vriska. You look lovely.” You say, trying not to sound too shocked.

“Jeez, it’s not that strange, is it? If I’m going to be on a date I might as well look the part.” She rolls her eyes at this as if the whole concept of a date is absurd to her, but she actually seems to be having fun.

The restaurant isn’t far, but is a little hard to find since you are accustomed to navigating with use of a real address and GPS. Vriska guides you there safely though, and you arrive in time for the reservation you made earlier that day. It’s not actually as expensive as you expected it to be, only about $15 per plate, but Vriska says that for San Salvador, that’s pricey, although she assures you that doesn’t mean it’s the wrong choice since the cheaper places that she actually knows aren’t safe for someone like you. You are almost certain she’s over exaggerating about that, but you don’t contest her on it lest such an activity provoke her mockery yet again.

It is probably not the best dinner you’ve ever eaten, and it is probably not the most interesting conversation you’ve ever had, and Vriska, for all that she’s beautiful, is not the most gorgeous girl you’ve ever seen. But for whatever reason, she holds your attention like no one else you’ve ever met. Her laugh still grates on you, but you can tell that if you hear it enough times, you’ll end up being endeared to it. Her voice is both whiny and a little bit rusty and not too pleasant to listen to, but you like it anyway. She’s overdramatic and stretches out every 10th word in a ridiculously deliberate manner, and although she seems interested in what you have to say, her responses are often rude, more so than can be explained by cultural difference or difficulty with English. But you hang on every moment of it. You know you shouldn’t – you know right off the bat that liking Vriska is dangerous. Not because she used to fight in gang wars, not because it’s risky to be open in this country, not because she’s (pretty obviously) emotionally unstable – well, not just because of those things. Liking Vriska is dangerous because if you really like this girl, if you start spending time with her, you’re going to like her too much. She’s bad news for you, she’s gorgeous and broken and too easy to like, and you know it. And you don’t stop yourself anyway, because you simply can’t.

Dinner is over in an hour or two. She asks if you’d like to come home with her.

You say yes.

***

Sex with Vriska is not what you were expecting. She’s as experienced as you’d gathered, good at keeping a rhythm and not moving too fast and reading your signals and keeping the two of you on pace with each other in foreplay. When you get there, you find she is as beautiful naked as you could have imagined, if not moreso, and the sight of nipple piercings and a scorpio tattoo on her hipbone is almost too much to bear. But you are not sure what to do when, between breathless kisses, she asks you to tie her up and hit her.

You are frozen. “What?”

“Please,” she moans, desperation in her voice. “Please, necesito lo, I need it. Do it.”

You frown, uneasy. You’re not new to this kind of sex, and you enjoy it at times, although you’ve never dabbled that intensely. But you do not enter into it lightly the way she’s asking you to.

“I don’t know about that, Vriska.” You say.

“Please, Kanaya, please. Necesito, necesito, por favor necesito. You can’t leave me, no deje de mi, I’m begging you, just hit me, tie me up, por favor, make me pay, soy tan malo, make me pay.” She is moaning as she talks, slipping in and out of Spanish, sounding delirious.

You pause for a long moment, looking at her face. You can tell that this girl is in over her head here, that even if she’s done this before (probably) she doesn’t know what it is to do it right. But you believe her when she says she needs it. And although you can’t for the life of you figure out why that could be, or why she wouldn’t have said something earlier, you have trouble denying to Vriska Serket what she needs – especially since you need it too.

“Tell me where you keep what I will need.” You say.

She lets out a long groan at that. “In the closet. Top shelf. Apúrate.”

You get off the bed, open the closet door, and stand on your tiptoes: sure enough, several lengths of coiled rope and a riding crop sit side-by-side on a metal rack, along with some scissors. You grab these and bring them down, kneeling over Vriska on the bed. “Tell me how to tie you.” You say. “I haven’t done this in a while and I will not hurt you any more than you want to be hurt.”

She grabs your hair and kisses you violently, then pulls away and lays down with her back exposed and her hands reaching for the bedframe. “Listen to me, and I will walk you through.” She says, purposefully agonizingly slow, enunciating each syllable so she doesn’t slip out of English. “Take a length of rope between your hands. Pinch it at two points and let slack out in the middle. Twist at the points four times, and keep loops open at the top. Bring them together.”

You follow her instructions as she speaks. “Now what?”

“Slip the loops over my right hand. Tighten the slack at the ends.”

You do it. A chill goes down your spine. Your heart is beating incredibly fast.

“Wrap the ends around my palm, between my forefinger and thumb. Tuck it under when you get around, then tuck under on the left side. Pull that out so it’s a loop, and pull the ends through the loop.”

Your hands are trembling and your breath is getting shorter and shorter, but you follow.

“Apúrate, Kanaya, por favor, I can’t take it, please.” Vriska moans, getting extremely breathy. You shiver. You can barely hold the rope any more, but you finish the motion.

“Now tie the knot tight on the middle of my palm and tie the ends to the frame.”

You do. As soon as you’re done, she grips her hand in a fist around the ropes, letting out a long, shaky sigh. You feel your heart beat straight through every inch of your body, you feel your labia clench. You are getting very wet.

“The other hand.”

You repeat your steps. She is breathing harder and harder as you go. When you tie the final knot, she moans loud and long. “Now, the crop, now. Por favor, necesito lo, soy tan malo, necesito lo.”

Shaking, you pick the crop up off the bed and examine it, running your hands along the length of it and fondling the leather end between your fingertips. Cautiously, you draw it back and hit her, moving slowly.

“Puta.” She hisses, angry. “That didn’t even hurt. Harder.”

You draw back again and whip her, a little harder this time.

She groans, whines, moans, relaxes into her bonds. “Harder, Kanaya!”

You stop holding back. You hit her once, twice, three times. She keeps moaning, harder each time, little high-pitched whining noises escaping her mouth in between hits, her breath coming harder and harder, your heartbeats rising together. You keep going four times, five times, six. She screams, but you can tell it’s not because of the pain.

“Talk to me,” she whines, “digame, digame.”

You say the first thing that comes to your mind. “I’ll make you pay, Vriska. I’ll make you hurt. I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done, bad girl.”

She cries out. “Golpéame, golpéame, otra vez, por favor, por favor.” She is muttering under her breath, losing all English and you don’t understand a single word, so you just hit her again, four times more, five times more, until finally she lets out a noise that lets you know to stop. You put the crop down and lean in close, making sure to avoid touching the welts with your front as you bear down, biting and kissing her neck.

“Take me.” She whispers. “Take me, ahora, take me, take me.”

You bite her neck harder, moving down across her shoulder. “Beg me.”

“Por favor, por favor, por favor, I need it, Kanaya, I need you, please let me, please.” Her words come out in a single breath, desperate.

You grab the scissors from the bedside table to cut her bonds and she relaxes onto her side. Gingerly, you lay down beside her, opposite direction, mouthing at her thighs and drawing out little breathy noises. You make her start first, but her mouth on you makes you so crazy that you can’t wait any longer and you dive in, going slow at first and then faster and faster as you both get closer until she bursts. You hear her muffled moans as if she is miles away, but you feel them just fine, and you are gone not too long after. You both lay there panting for some time afterwards before she speaks up.

“You are amazing, chica.” She says, her voice shuddering.

Hysterical, you laugh. “Thank you.”

“De nada. There’s a first aid kit in the closet, right behind where you found the rest of it. You think you can stay amazing a little longer?”

“I can try.”

After probably the most intense sex of your life, it is remarkably relaxing to sit on Vriska’s bed in the dark and rub aloe vera on her back, both of you still naked. It is cool between your fingers and her low, slow breathing tells you it is also cool on her back. You are silent as you work, moving gently and staying there with your palms running over and over her soft skin probably much longer than you need to. Finally you pull your hands away.

“Done. Sit up.”

Gingerly, she does so, rolling her shoulders back and forth to test. She winces a little, but then relaxes. “Feels okay. You did a good job – skin isn’t broken, even, which is better than I can say for a lot of people.”

You frown. “Vriska, that’s not how it’s supposed to work.” 

“Hey, sometimes doms are assholes, what can I say. At least the ones I meet are. Anyway, if they go too far, they also go out the door, so don’t worry about it. I do sort of know what I’m doing. Toss me an aspirin?”

You fumble around in the kit and find a bottle. She takes it, pops it open, and swallows one dry. “Anyway, I have to say I’m impressed.” She continues, screwing the cap back on. “I was kind of expecting you to quit on me, actually, but you didn’t. You ever do that before?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. You didn’t strike me as the type. Thanks for seeing it through. A lot of people chicken out halfway through.”

You pause for a second, seeking words with which to respond. You can’t think of anything that makes sense, but you speak anyway; it seems necessary. “You needed it, and I wanted it. It was… enjoyable.”

“Please, obviously you enjoyed it. I’ve got you wrapped around my finger now, Maryam, just you wait ‘till next time.”

You do not say that she’s right, but she is. But not because of the sex.

You stay wrapped around Vriska Serket’s finger for the next two weeks. She is on your mind when you are out meeting local designers, she is on your mind when you are visiting museums to look at traditional local clothing, she is on your mind when you are simply being a tourist, she is on your mind when you are at her apartment and when she is at your hotel and when you are (again and again) on top of her, dominating her, binding her up with ropes that will never be as strong as the pull she has on you. And in all that time, never do you ask her why she needs this, why she wants to be punished. Never do you try to tell her that whatever it is, you forgive her for all of it, on behalf of anyone and everyone she’s ever manipulated like she’s done to you. You don’t tell her that you can see where she’s broken and cracked and you don’t ask her why that is. You sometimes come close after sex, when you are lying in bed still shaky and breathless and delirious, overwhelmed by the taste and sight and feel of her. You come close to spilling out all those words; you even come close, once, to telling her that you love her and you need her and you want her to come back with you to London where she can be free from all of this history and you can take care of her like her mother never did.

But you don’t.

The night before you fly home, you are at your hotel watching TV with her when she asks you to take her one last time.

“I don’t have ropes.” You say.

She shakes her head. “No importa. I don’t want them.”

You blink, surprised. “You’re sure?”

She smiles, nods at you.

You shake your head and laugh, nervously. “I don’t… know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything.” She says. “Just… take me.”

You look at her for a minute. Vriska Serket has never been as imposing as she tried to be, but right then, she is smaller than you’ve ever seen her.

You turn off the TV and kiss her. This time, sex with Vriska feels like the most gentle, emotional thing you have ever done. When you are done, she falls asleep in your arms.

You take a taxi to the airport the next morning. You are afraid that if you let Vriska drive you, you will either never leave the car or buy her a plane ticket to travel alongside you.

When you touch down in London, you turn your phone on to find you have a text.

“Kanaya,

Thanks for such a gr8 time. Let me know the next time you’re in the neigh8orhood, won’t you?”

You text back that you will – of course you will. But you never get a response.

Mactan, Philippines: November 2012

You notice her right off the bat.

Clubs are dusky but bright, filled in equal parts with smoke and flashing, colorful light. It is an atmosphere best enjoyed while under the influence, and given that you abstain, it is an atmosphere not particularly suited to your enjoyment, but you wanted to give it a shot, since someone told you that it might be a good way to meet girls around here, if you can spot one with a bandanna. You’re not enjoying it much, though – it’s crowded and loud and you wanted to get out ten minutes after getting in, except that you cannot take your eyes off this one girl.

You think it might be the hair. She has longer hair than almost anyone you’ve ever seen, certainly longer than you’d expect in a place where humidity’s high and the temperature rarely drops below 10 degrees Celsius. Being femme is one thing, but it’s massive, spilling out over her entire back in a messy waterfall even from a high ponytail. She’s a perfect muscular-thin that you see rarely, at home or in travels, and her dancing is effortless and sexier than anything.

When she stops dancing and sits down in front of you, it stops being the hair immediately. It is beyond you how you can meet a white girl with purple eyes, a Latina girl with blue eyes, and a Filipina girl with green eyes (all bright as the sun) in the course of six months, and makes you wonder briefly what could be next.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” She asks, yelling to be heard above the din of music.

You shake your head. “I don’t dance like that.” You say. “It isn’t modest. No offense.”

“Why’d I take offense?” She says. She extends a hand across the small table. There are little colored rubber bands dotting her fingers. “I’m Jade Harley. Pleased to meet you!”

You take her hand, smile gently, and kiss it. She’s surprised, but doesn’t seem uncomfortable, so you continue. “The pleasure is mine. I’m Kanaya Maryam.”

She smiles. “You know, I think you’re the second person to ever kiss my hand like that.” She says.

“Who was the first?”

“My cousin.”

You withdraw your hand a little hastily and she laughs. “Wanna get out of here, Kanaya?” She asks.

You frown. “But you look to be having so much fun.”

“Naw. I can have that kind of fun whenever I want to. It’s not every day that I meet someone sober. C’mon.” She stands up and leans across the table, positioning her mouth very close to your ear. Her hair tickles your chest and even through your clothes, you shiver.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to get some privacy?” She whispers.

A half an hour later, you are out walking along the coastal streets of Mactan at one AM with a girl named Jade Harley.

She names the stars as you walk, pointing towards each individual one. You have no idea which one she’s looking at for any given moment, but you let her keep on anyway.

“That’s ursa major.” She says. “And ursa minor, right next to them there. Probably. This city is so bright, it’s harder to see ‘em here. I used to live pretty far out on an island – not this island, another one, somewhere between here and Hawaii – and my Grandpa and I would count stars every night. He taught me their names and how to navigate by them. Not a lot of people who know how to do that any more. I guess it’s not that useful in the city, but I never get lost, so it must have done something! Oh, and there’s Virgo! That one’s part of the zodiac.”

“Yes. It’s my sign.” You say.

She looks down from the sky and smiles at you, grabs your hand. “I can’t see Sagittarius right now.” She says. “But that’s me. I never did ascribe to that sort of thing much, but you do seem like a Virgo, somehow.”

“How did you end up coming here from so far off?” You ask.

“Well I was raised by my Grandpa, ‘cuz my parents died in an accident, but then when my Grandpa died too, when I was like thirteen, I ended up being looked after by some like, long-lost aunt and uncle. Apparently that actually happens in real life!” She laughs. “Anyway, they mostly left me to hang out with their sons, who were close to my age, so I guess at that point we looked after each other. We still do now that we’re living together just the three of us. And the dog.”

“What do you do?” You ask. “Besides live with your cousins.”

“College, mostly. I study chemistry and I work part-time as an art consultant.”

“Funny combination.”

“I guess.” She says idly. “That’s what people always tell me, but I just do it ‘cuz it’s fun. My whole family’s pretty weird that way, I think, but the jury is so still out on whether that has anything to do with our being raised as wild island babies, so don’t even start.”

“I had no intention.” You say.

Jade smiles and squeezes your hand. “Good. So, Kanaya Maryam… how’d you feel about coming home with me tonight? No boys in the house. Just you and me.”

“As lovely as that sounds, Jade, I think tonight might not be the right time.” You reply. “But call me in the morning if you’re not too hungover, and I’d love to do breakfast.” You slip her a small piece of paper with your number on it. 

Jade’s eyes light up a little as she takes and pockets the paper. “See you for breakfast, then.” She says.

“If you’re not too hungover.” You repeat.

Jade laughs. “Not a problem. I’m sober right now.”

You’re surprised, and she laughs, kisses you on the cheek, and slips you a 200-peso note. “To help you get home.” She says. “Seeing as I’m pretty sure the only reason you actually stayed at the club so late was to stare at my ass.”

With that, she skips off down the street in the direction you came from.

You are beginning to wonder what’s gotten into you lately.

***

You end up going to breakfast at your resort hotel because it’s convenient for you, and Jade doesn’t mind going wherever since, according to her, she can bike “pretty much anywhere!” (Having seen her quads, you believe it.)

You notice when she sits down that’s she’s still wearing a bandanna on her hip. “Should I be insulted?” You ask, nodding to it. “I realize I’m probably not what you’re used to, but I hope I am enough.”

Jade rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dumb. I know you’re new here, but they’re there for reasons other than picking up on girls. You might wanna get one for while you’re here, too.”

You shake your head. “I’m not here for long. Besides, it isn’t my symbol to wear.”

“You’re so serious.” Jade says. “Don’t you wanna have at least a little fun while you’re here? Look around, you’re in an island paradise. Go snorkeling or something.”

“I didn't exactly bring a burkini.” You reply.

“Oh, right. Jeez, silly me. Well, what about going for a hike along the beach or something? It doesn’t seem like you’re baking too much under that scarf… even if you are, there’s an air-conditioned aquarium. C’mon, isn’t doing stupid tourist stuff what you’re here for?”

“Sort of.” You say. “I’m technically here on business – meeting a local distributor to make plans for selling some of my clothing here – but I’ll be here for long enough to absorb some culture, as well, so I hope.”

“And go on romantic adventures with girls wearing bandannas. What a tight schedule!”

“The adventures are optional. I won’t turn down a walk by the coast with a beautiful girl, by any means, but I’m not really up for going looking for romance right now.”

“Then what were you doing in that club last night?”

“An experiment. If I could meet someone there, I’d make time for romantic adventures. If I couldn’t, I figured I’d sit this trip out.”

Jade’s eyes flash. “Lucky me, then. And lucky you for finding me. Gotta warn you, though, a lot of the stupid-tourist stuff here, fun as it might be, is a rip-off. This country is beautiful, but don’t judge the book by it’s cover, you know?”

“I’m well aware.” You say. “Still, you’re native here. There must be something you know that we can do. I don’t really care for tourism, especially if things are as you say. But perhaps a dinner date or a movie would be fun – or a hike? There must be some uncommercialized terrain around.”

Jade grins from ear to ear. “Well, when you put it like that… how long are you in town for?”

“Short visit, I’m afraid. I have some rather pressing business matters to look after back home, as well, so I’ll only be here for a week.”

“No problem!” She declares. “Give me a day of your time, then. I dunno that it’d be the kind of tourism you usually do. And I dunno how much culture you’d get out of it. But I guarantee you two things. One, you’ll have fun. And two, you’ll get to make out with me. Do we have a deal?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Jade… you’re very forward, do you know that?”

“Well I’m doing it on purpose, so yeah. Anyway. What’s it gonna be?”

“On the condition that I can back-out partway through the day if I want… yes.”

“Sweet! I’ll meet you outside here Thursday morning at 8 AM, okay? Don’t be late!”

Before you can say anything in response, Jade kisses you on the cheek and bounces off out the restaurant doors.

You sincerely hope that Jade Harley was the right girl to pick.

***

Jade arrives at the hotel at precisely 8 AM three days later. She is wearing cargo shorts, hiking boots, and a neon green tank top, and her bandanna is around her neck.

“I didn’t really bring hiking shoes.” You say.

“That’s okay!” Jade declares. She rifles around in her bag and pulls out a pair of very dirty brown boots, dropping them square on the ground. “I brought some for you!”

The boots are a little bit too big, but they’re serviceable, and your jeans and shirt are sturdy but light, so Jade judges you good-to-go.

“Go where?” You ask.

“You’ll find out! Just trust me.”

Reluctantly, you oblige.

You drive to wherever-it-is-you’re-going in a jeep that apparently belongs to one of Jade’s cousins, but is hers for the day. 20 minutes drive and two bridges later, you arrive in a parking lot at the head of what looks like a trail hike.

“Is this supposed to be a trail hike?” You ask.

“Hike yes.” She says. “Trail… not exactly. Mangrove roots grow mostly in the water, so we’ll be largely on boardwalks.”

“Largely?” You ask, alarmed.

“Yes, largely.” She says. “There’s a place I want to show you that’s just a little bit off the trail… like, not far off the trail, but off the trail. There’s solid ground there, so we won’t drown, no worries.”

You have no idea what must have gotten into you to make you agree.

After about 30 minutes walk and several forks in the boardwalk, Jade stops short. She slowly pans her gaze from right to left, then up to down, turning around and surveying the landmarks of the forest.

“We’re not lost, are we?” You ask, wary.

Jade doesn’t respond for a second, but then her eyes settle on something and she lights up. “Nope!” She says. “We’re here! C’mon, follow me.” She steps carefully off the boardwalk onto the roots of a nearby tree, then hops from there to a small sandy spot between the trees. You have little choice but to mimic her.

From there, Jade takes your hand and you walk deeper into the forest between the two trees at which she had stopped. What you see there looks like something out of a storybook. In the middle of the wet, messy mangrove forests, there is a clearing – no more than seven meters square – where several rocks and branches have been piled into very small benches around a dug-out fire pit.

“Jake and John and I made it.” She says proudly. “When we were about fifteen or sixteen. We were going out hiking here, and Jake noticed that little sandy patch, so we hopped over and ducked through the trees, and found this place! There weren’t any seats then, obviously, we made those. We thought they’d probably float away when high tide came in, and that the sandy patch would be gone too, but it’s just big enough, and far enough above water level, that the tide hasn’t taken it away yet, so the spot, and all our stuff, is still here. I’m sure it’ll get washed out eventually, but Jake and I come check once every few months, and it’s barely changed. Kinda magical, huh?”

It is.

“Jade.” You say. “Why are you showing this to me?”

Jade smiles. “I wanted you to see something real while you were here. Something as far from a tourist attraction as I could think of. Short of actually going into the poor parts of town, which isn’t that cheerful or appropriate for a date, this was the best I could think of. Not exactly culture, like I said, but it was made by Filipinos, and it was lived in by us, and it’s real – not marketed, not corrupt, just this natural little spot where magic happened for my cousins and I.”

You frown. “Is it that bad? Being here?”

Jade scrunches up her face and wanders over to one of the small benches, where she sits. “It’s not that it’s bad.” She says. “It’s just hard sometimes. Me, I’m lucky – the only family I live with are my cousins, who don’t care at all that I’m bi, but there’s a lot of other girls who are getting pretty frustrated with the ‘gay-friendly Philippines’. Even if it applied to girls, too, a lot of it’s just for tourism, and most of it happens up in Manila and nowhere else. And no amount of shine will make our government less of a mess. It gets kinda old. But I don’t really think it’s any of that that makes me so restless. It’s just… I spent over half of my life nearly totally alone. And that was fine! And it’s not that people aren’t fine too, it’s just that you’re expected to do things, and sometimes I don’t want to… to go to college, and make money, and lead a normal life, like that.”

You sit down on a bench across from her. “So… what do you want to do?”

She laughs. “Me and Jake – he’s the same way, you know, about a lot of this, even though he grew up in a house – we always talk about running off together and becoming globetrotters. Indiana Jones and his aggressively bisexual cousin. Well, Jake’s queer too, so I guess it would be more ‘Indiana Jones if everything was way more gay.’ It’s just that it turns out that actually being Indiana Jones isn’t that practical in 2012. I dunno. Grandpa’s house is still on our old island – I own it, so no one can mess with it without my permission. Maybe we’ll just go out there and do some sort of science thing and get grants for it. Fly home to visit John and buy groceries every six months. Of course, there’s no pretty girls – or boys – for either of us on a deserted island, so maybe not.”

“Wouldn’t it be worth it?” You ask. “To be a real adventurer?”

Jade smiles. “You’re awfully wise for a 20-something year old.”

You smile back at her. “Jade Harley, I have seen the world, or at least a great deal more of it than the average person will see in their whole life. And I have met a lot of people. And it is no great wisdom to say that the ones who have done what they were supposed to at the expense of what they were meant to are always unhappy. You’re an adventurer, and it sounds like Jake is too. And you are too smart a girl to knowingly give up what makes you happy.”

Jade stands up from her bench, marches over to yours, and kisses you on the lips – hard, breathy, intense. You make out with her like she’s your first girlfriend and you’ve never kissed before and everything is on fire and moving so incredibly fast. You keep up with this for a solid half-hour, by the end of which Jade’s tank-top and your hijab have both fallen to the sandy floor and your hands have climbed all over her breasts.

As you lie side-by-side on the sand, she speaks. “We’re going out to dinner with my cousins after this.” She says. “Back in Lapu-Lapu. But when we’re done with that, how would you feel about taking me up on my original offer?”

You’re confused. “What original offer?”

“Come home with me for the night. It won’t be a full day without it. And that is what you promised me.”

For what feels like the hundredth time, you tell Jade Harley yes.

***

Dinner with Jake and John is pleasant, if short. The boys are both charming and handsome, if more than a little goofy, and they make for good company, although you’re not sure you could put up with either on an extended basis. Jake, as you expected, is just as rambunctious as Jade, and his eyes light up behind his glasses whenever he gets enthusiastic about a story. You wonder if he and Jade really could live off on a deserted island together – something tells you that they’d be just fine, even if the idea is on the face of things insane. John seems a little more toned down, the most normal of the bunch, and a little paler than the other two. You figure that at some point, the adventurer’s life probably stopped suiting him (or just as likely, he got too big to be pulled around by his brother and cousin.)

Somehow, Jade manages to communicate to the two of them that it might be convenient if they went out for a while after dinner, resulting in Jake making plans to hit up a local gay bar (you remember what Jade said about the boys-only gay friendly Philippines) and John going to spend the night with his girlfriend. You have the house to yourselves.

You take a quick shower to rinse off from the earlier hike, then Jade sits you down in her bedroom with an anime DVD to watch while she takes second shower. You haven’t seen Sailor Moon since you were very small, and you weren’t really aware that it was something grown women still did, but it’s fun and nostalgic to watch. By the time 30 minutes are up, though, you are getting antsy.

You stand up and knock on the door to the master bathroom. “Jade? Is everything all right?”

“Fine!” Jade calls. “Just need a few more minutes.”

You frown. “I don’t hear water running.”

“Oh, I’m done in the shower.” She says. “Just taking care of one last thing.”

“May I come in and join you, then? I finished the episode… and I’d really rather be watching you right now.”

“Oh. Well, when you put it like that, of course.”

You open the door and enter. Jade is standing in front of the mirror with her long hair in a clip and her glasses on the counter, wearing an atomic green negligee, garter belt, and thigh-high stockings. You are distracted enough by this, due both to sudden arousal and disgust at the color choice, that you don’t notice for a good five seconds what she’s doing.

“Why are you taking the rubber bands off your fingers so slowly?” You ask.

Jade seems confused by the question for a moment, then laughs as if embarrassed. “Oh. That. It’s kind of a weird habit, don’t worry about it.”

“What are they supposed to be for, anyway?”

She smiles at you through the mirror and returns to removing them one-by-one. “They’re reminders.” She says. “It’s a trick Grandpa taught me when I was younger. I used to sleep a lot – like, a lot – and I’d see all sorts of wonderful things in my dreams, but then when I woke up, I couldn’t recall what any of them were. And they all seemed so important, when I was young, so I would be just devastated about it. So he, Grandpa, got me all of these little colored bands, and if I saw something that seemed important while I was dreaming, I’d put a band on when I woke up, so when I saw it, I’d remember what the thing was. It’s been a long time since I would dream like that, and see such amazing things, but I keep doing it. I guess using reminders reminds me of him. And I use them for when I’m awake now, too, for homework and stuff. They’re important to me. Like the bandannas – maybe even more.”

“You don’t have to take all of them off, Jade, if you care that much about it. I can… we don’t have to use fingers, if you don’t want to.”

She shakes her head. “Nah, that’s not it. Although you’re very courteous, I do this every time. Even if I’m having sex with a boy.”

“Why?” You ask.

She smiles, removes the last band, and walks over, kissing you again, as hard as she did earlier in the grove. When she pulls away the look on her face is devilish. “Because I don’t want to have to remember or think about anything else while I fuck you.” She says. “You spent the day with me like I asked, and now you’ve got my full attention.”

You barely make it to the bed before she starts biting you on the neck and down your shoulder, pushing you down onto the mattress with force like you haven’t felt in a long time. You are suddenly more gratified than ever for her musculature. You don’t have much time to feel that way before she starts kissing your breasts.

You let out a hard moan, but try to contain yourself. You wander a hand up to her thigh and scratch her skin gently.

She pulls up from your breast and bats the hand away so quickly you barely notice it. “Not so fast with your fingers there, eager girl.” She breathes, and she seems genuinely a little pissed.

You shake your head. “Not going fast. Just trying to make you happy, happy girl.”

She laughs, and you can barely stand it to wait, to not take her right then and there without any further warning. “You’ve got it way wrong, then, Kanaya.” She says. “You want me to be happy? Do this for me. Don’t touch me – don’t kiss me, don’t even breathe on me – unless I say so. This is my bed, and I am in control right now. If you want me to be happy, all you have to do is go along for the ride, and tell me, show me, that I’m doing right by you. You got that?”

You say the only word you know any more. “Yes.”

She smiles, kisses you fiercely on the mouth once more, then ducks between your legs, kissing your foot, your ankle, your calf, moving her mouth further up and sinking her teeth into your thigh just hard enough to hurt a little. Your audible gasp is cut off when, a few seconds later, she goes an inch further up and delicately moves her tongue so close that you have to bite your lip to keep from screaming.

She pulls up again and you cry out from frustration. Jade echoes your moan and seizes onto your breasts with both hands, pushing in. You cry.

“Learn this.” She says. “I start when I want to start.”

Ten extremely frustrating minutes later, she guides your hand over her panties and begins moving in rhythm with you. It is fifteen minutes after that before she finally gets her mouth over your clit, and is probably less than a minute before you finish. She comes seconds after.

In the bathroom, you wash your hands while she brushes her teeth.

“No one has done that to me since high school.” You say.

She spits into the sink and hugs you tight from behind. “Then it’s about time, isn’t it?”

***

She walks with you as far as she can in the Mactan-Cebu International airport. When you reach a sign labeled “Passengers Only”, you stop and turn to face her.

“Thank you.” You say. “For everything. You are… an incredible girl, Jade Harley.”

“And you aren’t half as cool as you like to pretend you are.” She says. “But that’s okay. Here, I’ve got a present for you.” She withdraws an unwrapped box from her bag.

You take it and open the lid. A twine bracelet with a single bright green bead is inside.

“It’s a reminder.” She says. “For you. Of me, and Mactan Island. I figured a fashion designer wouldn’t be too into neon rubber bands, so I thought this would be better.”

You are stunned. You take the bracelet out and wrap it around your wrist. Jade reaches over and does the clasp for you.

“You showed me so much, and I don’t have anything for you.” You say.

“No biggie. I got myself something for you.” She holds out her left hand for you, and you hold it, examining it. Affixed to her second finger, close to the base, is a new band, only this one is more like a ring, made of twine and painted a very dark brown.

“That’s for me, from you.” She says, and she is blushing a little, which you have not seen her do once before. “For remembering you by.”

You kiss her on the mouth. “How could I ever forget you.” You say, smiling sadly.

She giggles. “Don’t get all mushy. Go on, then, you’ll miss your flight.”

You nod, separate from her. “Goodbye, then, Jade Harley. If you and your cousins’ spot ever goes away, let me know, all right?”

“You can count on it.” She says.

When you do hear from Jade again, it’s some time later. She informs you that she’s graduated, and that Jake and her are going back to the house she owns since apparently someone actually funded them, but that that means they won’t be able to check on the spot as often any more. You tell her that you think an entire island ought to be a spot of quite satisfactory size.

Guangzhou, China: January 2013

Usually, when you meet a girl, she approaches you first. You like it that way. You’re not interested in going after a girl only to hear that she doesn’t swing that way, she’s taken, she’s just not looking for a relationship right now (neither are you, but that never stopped you). You’d had more than your fill of that by the end of college. Instead, you wait, and make her indicate interest in you.

This rule goes out of the water when you see Terezi for the first time.

At first, you don’t even believe it. It seems too absurd to be true, this tiny little Chinese girl with colored glasses and a cane standing outside the gates of a university complex. You think for half a moment that it must be some sort of statement, a fashion accessory. Certainly, bright red is not the color you’d usually expect a blind person’s glasses to be. But her head’s not quite pointed in the direction she’s walking, and the swing of her cane is too natural, too practiced, to be an act.

You try not to stereotype. You’ve had it happen to you too often, and you know how it hurts. But you are pretty sure it wouldn’t cross the line to call this sight unusual.

You jog to the corner light and wait for her to cross the street. You are surprised to see her start walking almost the minute the light changes, although there’s no beep and no one to cue her – the accommodations for the blind here are not all that great (or existent). Maybe she’s not completely blind?

Street crossed, she ascends to the sidewalk and stops square in front of you, resting her cane on the concrete between you. She tilts her head up towards you and you are extremely unnerved because it feels like she is looking you right in the eyes even though you can see clearly through the glasses that her eyes are not quite right. She says something to you in Chinese.

You are startled at being approached, particularly under the circumstances. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you speak English. Why were you staring at me from across the street?” She asks.

You stutter in response. “I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please, I’m blind, not stupid. What are you, a stalker?” She pauses and sniffs the air. “No, you’re not a stalker – well, you might still be! But you’re a tourist stalker. You don’t smell like Guangzhou. You smell like you’ve been in a temple for too long. What is that, incense? No, spice. Saffron, definitely, and… rose petals? And at least one flower I don’t know. Where on earth are you from? You speak English, with an accent. Is that British?”

“Yes. London.”

“You smell like fancy spices and you sound like London. Huh.” She sniffs again. “You also smell like green, even though you’re wearing orange. Kind of peppermint. Unusual!”

“How can I smell like a color? And how can you tell I’m wearing orange if you’re blind?” You ask, bewildered.

“Not so fast! You still haven’t answered my first question. Why were you staring at me?”

You are not sure how to answer this, so you tell the truth. “I saw you, leaving the university, and you looked interesting, so I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Kanaya Maryam.”

The girl laughs. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place! I’m Terezi Pyrope. Pleased to make your acquaintance! But I need to be home quite soon, so it would be better if I could make it another day. My phone number if you’re calling from an international line is 011-86–20–1437–5436. I’d tell you to text but this phone won’t read aloud, so call me! See you later, Kanaya Maryam.”

Before you can say anything more, or get an answer as to why saffron and rose petals smell like peppermint green, she’s turned away from you and headed down the street off and away. Not wanting to be any creepier than you have already been tonight, you don’t follow.

***

You meet her next at the Planet Bar in Tianhe, a place recommended by her. The first thing you notice is that it’s (very obviously) a lesbian bar. You don’t recall being that obvious – you usually prefer at least the smallest element of subtlety – but you think back on your first interaction and realize that subtlety went out the door the minute you started gaping. You arrive first and are about halfway through your drink when you hear the clicking of a cane behind you and turn to see a hostess leading Terezi by hand to the seat beside you. She sits down and says a few words to the hostess in Chinese before folding up her cane in her lap and turning to face you.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/151948869@N02/36779681161/in/dateposted-public/)

“You smell like green even though you were wearing orange because I have synesthesia. I’m going to assume you know what that means. You still smell like green, actually! But I’m pretty sure you’re wearing…” She pauses and frowns. “Actually, you’re really wearing green today! I think. And black on your head. I’m guessing it’s a headscarf. Which I know because I’m not totally blind, as it happens. Mostly, yes: the edges of my vision are black and it’s getting worse, but I can see colors sort of. There’s no definition to it and it’s hard to do in darkness, like here, or at night, but it’s something. People like to tell me that I should hang on to that and stay positive about it, but I like to tell them to shut up when they do, so don’t.”

“I – won’t.” You stammer. “It’s nice to see you again. Thank you for agreeing to meet me. And for the location recommendation.”

“Happy to help!” She says. “I figured a tourist would probably be less than heavily informed about the lesbian scene here. Seeing as a lot of us aren’t even that informed. The place people will usually tell you about is Velvet, but that’s for the boys. I’ve come here many a time seeking out some company, but not everyone is friendly.” She gestures to her glasses, taps her cane in her lap. “I prefer online spaces, but for you, I figured I’d make an exception.”

“I’m sorry.” You say. “Thank you for the exception. I hope I’ll be able to convince you that I’m worth it.”

She laughs, and it’s sort of a cackle, drawing eyes to you from the surrounding area. “You’re very cautious for someone so forward.” She comments. “Now come on, let’s talk. What are you doing in Guangzhou, tourist?”

“Not touring.” You respond. “Not… exactly. I’m a fashion designer. I like to travel to find inspiration, and make new contacts.”

“A professional. How fancy. Personally, I’m in Guangzhou because I was born here, and I’m still here because this is where my parents live.”

“Do you live with them?”

“No, I have an apartment. But they pay for it. And for school. And for most things. Unfortunately, there’s not much work available to me here. Plus I don’t exactly have a lot of free time as a law student.”

You’re surprised. “That’s what you study?”

“Yep! Not the easiest choice, but oh well.” She scoffs again, as if at a private joke. The hostess returns with a drink for her – Terezi takes it and thanks her.

You are trying to tread lightly here, because the last thing you want to do is cause offense by stereotyping, but she keeps saying things that bring it up, if only by inference, and you wonder if it might be better to just stop dodging the subject. “In general, or because you’re blind?”

She smiles. “Have you heard of Chen Guangcheng?”

“No.”

“He was a blind lawyer and activist here until 2005, which was the first time he was arrested: then he was in prison until 2010, then he was under house arrest until last April, when he escaped to the U.S. Embassy. He’s in New York now, the U.S. gave him amnesty. But his nephew stayed here, and he got convicted to three years in prison for self-defense like, a month or two ago during a rigged trial. Does that story answer your question?”

You blush. “I’m sorry. That was a foolish question.”

“Nah, it’s okay. You were trying to be nice, right Miss Peppermint?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s fine! Not that I don’t appreciate the opportunity to use your sympathy for my poor pathetic circumstances to get my way. But I kind of like you, Kanaya, so I’ll be up front. It’s not easy. I have to work twice as hard as everyone else to get half the credit. I got into the school because my parents scraped up enough money to start a minor endowment, not through smarts or talent. The people who don’t mind that I’m blind care that I’m bisexual, the people who don’t care that I’m bisexual care that I’m a girl, and things get pretty frustrating! But believe me when I say that I have never met a challenge I wasn’t up to. And I have friends. Mostly they’re online, but I have them. So I guess what I’m getting at is this.” She takes a long sip from her drink, sets it down, and turns to face you. “If you’re interested in me because I’m unique, or exotic, back off now. If you’re interested in me because you feel bad for me, the poor little blind gay girl, say so right now and we won’t see each other again and that will be fine. I won’t be pissed! It’s a normal reaction – you’re a foreigner with money and I am admittedly pretty pathetic. But I’m not looking for a big sister, I’m looking for a lover. And if you’re interested in that, we might just get along. So, Miss Peppermint… why are you interested?”

She takes another sip from her drink, and you mimic to buy time. You know your answer perfectly well. But you know that Terezi puts value in words, and doesn’t give second chances, so you want to be careful – very careful – how you go about saying it.

“Because you walk confidently.” You say. “Because you noticed me checking you out from across the street and you somehow managed to look me dead in the eyes when you confronted me about it. Because you dress absolutely hideously, and I don’t think that’s because you’re blind. Because you are too confident by a mile to be a tiny blind Chinese girl, but that’s what you are. And because I am in town for the next month, and looking for a lover, and you are hot. Is that good enough for you?”

Terezi laughs at this last comment, again drawing the intention of the entire bar, but you find you don’t care. “Excellent reasons, Miss Peppermint! Ideally I’d of course like less mention of my being a tiny blind girl, but good enough, certainly. You’re pretty hot yourself, from what I’ve gathered, and you smell nice, so I will accept your proposition. I warn you, though – if you’re only in town for a month, you’d better not fall in love with me. I don’t have the time for a girlfriend like that.”

“Nor do I.” You say hastily. You think of September and respond with an edge to your voice. “I’ve had… quite enough of love, lately. I just want to have some fun.”

She grins a little wider, a little scarier and sexier. “Then have fun we will, Miss Peppermint.”

***

Your first dates with Terezi are some of the strangest times you’ve ever had. The second time you go out, after the bar, it’s to an art museum, since “You are here to look at our fashion and culture, after all!” You protest, of course; that may be true, but you can look at museums on your own time, when you’re not in the company of a blind person. But Terezi insists, so you go anyway. Then you find out that having her there, blindness and all, ends up being more productive than going alone would have been. Every painting, every hung up qipao you see, you stop to ask what she sees, and every answer you get sends you scribbling to your little purple notebook with design ideas.

“It’s not as good as going to a temple would be.” She insists, when you thank her for her insights. “Or a garden or something. Everything smells and tastes almost the same behind the glass – how boring!”

Your third date, following this advice, is at the South China Botanical Garden. It is a gorgeous, luxurious rainforest, and you enjoy exploring, but not half so much as she does. Halfway through your walk, she sits down on a nearby bench so suddenly that your heart jumps into your throat. “Terezi?” You ask, turning around to face her. “Are you… okay?”

You are pretty sure if you could see her eyes, and if they actually functioned, that they would be rolled into the back of her head. “Oh my God, Kanaya.” She mutters.

Your hand jumps to your cell phone. “I’ll call –”

She holds up a hand, shakes her head, laughs a little hysterically. You hover closer, worried. “Shut up! I’m fine. It’s just… wow. God, I wish you could see what I can see right now.”

You frown. “Terezi, you can’t see.”

“It’s hard to explain.” She says. “Synesthesia and partial blindness are a very interesting mix!”

You pause for a moment, then shrug your shoulder bag off. From it, you extract a set of colored pencils and notebook, which you hand, very gingerly, over to your date. “In that case,” you say, “Why don’t you show me it instead?”

She frowns, hands and fingers groping carefully along the contours of the objects in her hands. She sets the notebook in her lap and most of the pencils, keeping only one in her hand. Then she licks it –a loud, wet, obvious lick that makes you gag and makes you very glad you are in relative privacy here.

“Strawberries!” She says. “Such a pretty color. Not my favorite shade of red, but still good.”

This pattern repeats itself for pretty much every pencil. Once she’s licked them all to satisfaction, she begins drawing. You walk behind her and peek over her shoulder: she stops her work long enough to fumble around behind her and playfully elbow you in the stomach. “No peeking, Maryam!” She says. “Now you’ll have to turn around until I’m done. I can’t be expected to work when you might be cheating!”

Sufficiently admonished, you turn your back to her. You realize shortly after doing so how absurd an action this is. She’s not sighted enough to be able to tell if you are facing towards her or away past maybe six inches off from her face, and you’re three feet away where you’re standing. You realize that to Terezi, just about everything is a game, only just because it’s a game doesn’t mean it’s not dead serious. You realize that you have been aware of this, vaguely, ever since you met, and you realize that you have been playing along with her anyway, without question, without thinking about it.

“Done!” She proclaims. “You can look now!”

You return to Terezi and take your notebook from her extended hands. You have no idea what to make of what you see. Her lines of color cross over each other constantly, more jarring than artistic. Her angles are sharp at times, round at others, and at first you have no idea what they’re supposed to represent. It is a very strange cross between Van Gogh and the sketch of a five year old, halfway between a painting and a scribble, not exactly beautiful but not ugly either.

After staring at it for long enough, you realize that it is meant to be a flower.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/151948869@N02/36522999830/in/dateposted-public/)

You take the pencils from Terezi’s hands carefully and replace them in your backpack, then sit down on the bench next to her with the open notebook in your lap and lean into her shoulder. “It’s gorgeous.” You say. “Thank you.”

She laughs. “You don’t have to say that just because you feel sorry for me, Miss Peppermint.”

“No.” You say. “Really. It’s lovely. I’d like to use it for something, if you’d allow it. You’d be compensated if it sold.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You want to sell a scribble done by a blind girl to the kind of people who buy designer clothing?”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

She laughs. “You’re crazy, Kanaya. But sure. Why not. Tell you what. If you can find someone who’s actually interested in buying clothing that shitty, I’ll do something for you too.”

“Are you making a bet with me?”

“Of course not!” She says. “I’m a law student, and also a communist. I’m not making a bet with you, just a deal. Fair’s fair, and I owe you a favor if you do one for me: I don’t particularly enjoy being in a near stranger’s debt, anyway.”

“But what would I ask of you? What’s… equitable?”

She frowns. “Hmmm. That is a question! Justice is awfully complicated sometimes, isn’t it? Well, how about you get to decide once the first part of this arrangement goes through. You’re far too sensible to count your chickens before they hatch anyway! Aren’t you?”

You look at how the light hits her hair through the trees and glints off her red lenses, how intimidating she seems when she’s smiling even though she’s probably less than five feet tall and sitting down and blind. You look how her cane makes lines and patterns in the dirt everywhere she goes, marking an irregular trail behind her. You look at the almost-flower in your lap, and you think back on your year, on purple-eyed New Yorker blondes and Filipina dreamers and a Salvadoran girl-disaster.

You remember that you fell in love with every single one before leaving them.

You remember promising Terezi you would not fall in love with her.

“I try not to.” You say, and this is as close to truth as you are willing to get.

“Liar.” Terezi says. “Let’s keep going, shall we? There’s a lot left to smell here, and you’re only in the country for two more weeks!”

***

It’s two AM, you’re going out with Terezi again in two days, and you can’t sleep. You have been in China for a while, and are good at adjusting to jet lag by now anyway. And try as you might to pretend otherwise, you know exactly why you’re up.

All that turns up when you look up “Terezi Pyrope” is a mostly-empty forum profile in Chinese. There’s no incriminating information and no identifying information really, beyond a profile picture, a name, a city, and a listed sex. She hasn’t even made any posts with it. Then again, you’re not sure what might be being blocked from you – either by Terezi, or by being in China.

Rose is online. You decide to give it a shot.

GA: Rose  
GA: Are You There  
TT: I’m here.  
TT: Aren’t you in China? What time are you up, for goodness’ sake?  
GA: Uh  
GA: Two AM  
GA: But Its Not Important  
GA: I Need Help  
TT: Gracious. This must be a matter of some urgency.  
GA: Well  
GA: Not Exactly  
GA: But I Need Help Nonetheless  
TT: Alright, shoot.  
GA: Can You Look Up A Name For Me  
TT: Sure, what?  
GA: Terezi Pyrope  
TT: Okay.  
TT: All I see is a profile on a forum.  
TT: She’s Chinese and lives in Guangzhou?  
GA: Yes  
GA: Is That Really The Only Result  
TT: All that I can see.  
TT: It’s a pretty unusual name, so I think I would’ve found it if there was something else to find.  
TT: What are you looking at her for?  
GA: Shes My Date  
TT: What a mystery.  
TT: Maybe she just doesn’t use the Internet much?  
GA: No  
GA: She Said She Uses It A Lot  
TT: Maybe she’d be easier to find with another search term.  
TT: Do you have her name’s characters? Or a username?  
GA: No  
GA: Im Not Sure It Would Help Anyway  
GA: But Thanks  
TT: I can get someone who’s better with computers to try if you like.  
GA: Its Fine  
GA: Thank You For Trying But It Isnt That Important And I Should Sleep  
TT: Well, I can’t argue that.  
TT: Let me know if you change your mind, though.  
GA: I Will  
TT: Good night Kanaya.  
GA: Good Night Rose

You close the computer and curl up in bed. You realize that being this suspicious of potential foul play because of an empty Google search is absurd. You realize that you shouldn’t even be this attached. But you can’t shake the feeling that Terezi Pyrope is not telling you something important.

You sleep restlessly that night.

***

“If you were that curious, you could’ve just asked.”

You blink at Terezi over the top of your teacup. “Sorry?”

She smiles, sips her tea patiently. “My ex-boyfriend is obsessed with computers, and also with making sure his friends are safe. So he made a fake forum with a fake profile with my name attached to it and now it’s the first – and only – thing that turns up when you search my name in or out of China. Out of China, or on a proxy server, you’ll have more luck if you’ve got my username, but that’s something I’ve been instructed not to spread around. Anyway, he called me to say that it got like, three hits a couple nights ago, which is weird, since nobody cares enough about my existence to look me up. But I haven’t done anything to merit suspicion lately – or I didn’t think I had.”

You cough and take a long sip of your tea. “I didn’t know you date boys.” You say.

She laughs. “That wasn’t even a nice try. Don’t change the subject, miss peppermint. Just tell me, what on earth did I do to make you so curious? I hope you haven’t fallen in love with me!”

“No.” You say, hastily. “It’s just – you’re strange, sometimes, and you make me nervous.”

“Nervous? Me? But I’m just a tiny little blind girl!”

You roll your eyes, although the effect is lost on her. “Don’t joke. It’s not funny any more. It wasn’t that funny in the first place. And I’m not stupid. I don’t know much about technology, but I know it’s strange for someone who says they do most of their socializing online to turn up a single search result, and I know it’s awfully suspicious for someone to have a fake profile on a fake forum as some kind of cover, even if it wasn’t you who made it. And you can’t talk about Chen Guangcheng in one sentence and call yourself a tiny little blind girl in the next, Terezi.”

She sips her tea for a long time, and you are gratified that, at least once, she has to be the one to buy time to think of a response. “You’re right!” She says. “But it seems to fool most people, most of the time, when they’re not just ignoring me. Which is good enough – and safe enough – for me.”

“Why do you need to be so careful? Why is being safe such a concern, I don’t understand, have you done something wrong? Are you in trouble?”

She sighs. “Kanaya, not that I don’t appreciate cultural sensitivity, but stop being so obtuse. No, I haven’t done something wrong. I just live in communist China. To be honest, I think Sollux is a little too paranoid about all this! But he’s not without his reasons. I actually think he followed the thing about Chen Guangcheng even closer than I did. He kinda wishes I’d just get out of here already. He says it’d be safer, and he’s right. I dunno. What do you think, Miss Peppermint?”

“What do I think about what?”

“This. Everything I just told you.”

You shake your head. “Terezi, you just told me a lot of things. What are you actually asking?”

“Whether I should leave China.”

You sigh. “I don’t think I’m qualified to make that sort of judgment.”

“Oh, please, you’re perfectly qualified! Look at you. You always knew you wanted to be a designer, right?”

“That’s tangential.”

“Fancy word! But no, it’s not.”

You shrug. “Not exactly. I’ve liked fashion ever since I was little, and wanted to travel, but the idea of being a designer didn’t occur until secondary school.”

“Same here.” She says. “I have a passion for justice. Always have. It became a passion for law, as I got older, and even though they knew it was insane, my parents never said a single word of discouragement. I never let anything get in the way of my passion. But at this point, I’m not stuck between a rock and a hard place. I’m just pushing at this one stupid rock, just me, tiny blind Terezi. I could go around it, and still get where I’m going. But I’m stubborn!”

“Stubbornness can be good.” You say. “It’s just another way of saying perseverance, isn’t it?”

“There’s a difference,” she says, “between steadfastness and stupidity. And Chen Guangcheng’s stubbornness only ever earned him a decade of jail time. I’ve got the resources to up and leave, Kanaya. That’s no small thing. Am I squandering my opportunities? Or am I being loyal?”

You finish your tea and reach across the table to hold her hand. “I’ve known you for two weeks, Terezi. I want to help. But I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s not as complicated as you think!” She says. “Just tell me. Which one is it?”

You glance surreptitiously around the tearoom you’re in, and when you’re sure that no one is looking, you lean in and kiss her. When you pull away, you can see a very genuine smile on her face, and your heart flip-flops.

“I know what my answer to your bet is.” You say, still holding her hand tight.

“And what would that be, Miss Peppermint?” She asks.

“If someone buys my design, you have to leave China – for a visit, or forever, I don’t care. But you’re not as happy as you should be asking questions like those, and maybe seeing what else is out there would – would help answer them for you, if I cannot.”

Terezi lets out a shuddering breath. Up this close, you can just barely see through her glasses well enough to make out tears – just a few of them – forming at the corners of her eyes. “Fair and equitable terms.” She says, smiling as well as she can. “It seems you’ve learned something!”

You kiss her forehead, not bothering to see if anyone is looking. “Thank you for the lesson, Terezi.”

When you return home, you speak to someone to see if you can get Terezi’s flower printed on a t-shirt. You are not sure whether his eagerness to do so speaks more to Terezi’s artistic ability, or to the poor tastes of rich Londoner. Whatever the answer, you make the shirt, and with your name attached, it sells pretty well. You email Terezi a file showing the shirt’s sales, including only the shortest of personal messages.

“Terezi

Its Only Fair If You Hold Up Your End Of The Bargain  
And I Think Sollux Is Right”

About two weeks later, you receive a message in return.

“K4N4Y4,

N3V3R DOUBT MY D3D1C4T1ON TO JUST1C3!

P.S. TH1S 1S SOLLUX, BY TH3 W4Y

P.P.S. 1T’S FUCK1NG FR33Z1NG H3R3 >:[”

Attached is a photo of Terezi and a pale boy wearing 3-D glasses standing in front of a very impressive structure titled “tz and sc at ton2berg fort, February 2013”

A quick search reveals that “ton2berg fort” is a strange way of spelling “Tonsberg Fort”, the name of an old fortress, now a tourist site, in Southern Norway. You don’t hear from her after that, but when you Google her name again about a year out, the forum profile is gone and has been replaced by a not-fake Facebook page on which she is listed as living in Oslo, attending the University of Oslo Faculty of Law, and being in a committed relationship with Sollux Captor.

You wonder if you are getting too old for this.

New York, April 2041

On your wedding night, you and Rose lie in lingerie on the bed of a very nice hotel suite. You’re still in New York – you didn’t go anywhere, you don’t need the hotel – but you both felt it would be too unceremonious to just return to your house, especially since you’re not fully moved in and it’s a mess. You are both far too exhausted from the day to have sex immediately and really, all you want to do is lay in bed and be close to her.

Eventually, conversation turns to how you met, as it is apt to do on wedding nights, and Rose shifts beside you, getting closer. She holds your hand a little tighter and you look into her eyes, and she asks you, very cautiously, why it is that you left all that time ago; why it is that you dodged seeing her ever since then before now, sending letters and emails but never meeting in person, why it is that it took you so long to settle down with her or anyone. You are silent for a moment, searching the white ceiling for answers. You respond, slowly, that you wanted to see the world. And to do more – to experience the world. You wanted to do things, as well as see them; you wanted to know people, not just to meet them. But it wasn’t long before you realized that this was easier said than done. 

Contacts were costly, sometimes. Usually, not badly so. Usually, you would meet someone, and she’d be pretty and nice, and you’d become friends with her over the course of your time together, but when you left, you’d forget her, and she’d forget you, and it would be fine – you were busy, so was she, no reason to keep up every friendship you make, Facebook is there to do that for you (or at least to maintain the pretense until you don’t even recognize her name any more). But sometimes, it wasn’t like that at all. Sometimes, you met a girl, and even if you fell out of touch, her memory stuck like glue and it never let go of you. Names that stayed in your contact book, phone numbers that had probably changed ages ago, but you couldn’t bear to delete them.

And there was this one particular year where it seemed like you couldn’t get away from girls like that. You were twenty-four, and unprepared, and you fell in love with every soul you met. You never could figure out why it all happened in a row like that, but you think back on those girls and you can’t imagine it having gone any other way, because they were all too beautiful, all too fascinating, too smart or too damaged, too confusing, too bright. How could you keep from falling in love when you met a girl like that, every single time?

Rose asks you the year. You smile blissfully, stroking her hair idly as you answer that, of course, it was 2012 – the year you met her. She leans in to you and you kiss for a very, very long time.

Your name is Kanaya Maryam and you are fifty-three years old. You have spent the bulk of those years experiencing just about everything. You have been many places. You have done many things. You have loved many women, a few of whom you loved so deeply that you will never, ever stop carrying their memory. But you think it is past time you settled down already, because you know without question that if you could choose again, you would choose to love Rose every time.

**Author's Note:**

> A rough translation of Vriska's (important) Spanish dialogue is as follows:
> 
> Yelling at Tavros: "How could you do this to me? You're nothing without me, you know that? You know what, see if I care if you leave me, I'm the best girl you could ever hope to have and you know it. No one wants to deal with you. Piece of shit, you're nothing without me. You'll be begging to come back in a week, just wait. I don't need you, you need me, get it? I'll be fine. Good luck finding another lover, asshole. Fuck!"  
> to Kanaya: "Step back, bitch. None of this is your business."  
> Kanaya (to Vriska): "Girl. The people here are trying to shop. Please do not do this here."  
> To Kanaya, back in Vriska's apartment: "(English) Everyone thinks the gang members are just dogs, (Spanish), not humans, but because they are criminals doesn't mean that they're all only dogs. They have rights. I left a year ago (English) but they were my friends and it isn’t right how they talk about it."
> 
> Credit goes to:  
> [Otomatonom](otomatonom.tumblr.com/) for stepping in and illustrating this for me last-minute  
> Wikipedia and Google for making this entire fic possible at all (if I credited each individual site I visited while researching I'd run out of space)
> 
> Finally, I realize that I'm writing about a lot of cultures here that are not my own, and that all the research in the world can't teach me everything, so I'm really sorry if I've done something to cause offense here and if that is the case I invite you to bring it up with me. Bear in mind that I only have so many resources, and that I am not trying to paint broad portrayals of large cultures: I am just trying to write about five girls. However if you have something you really feel I should be paying more attention to, or something that was really problematic, or even some small tidbit that might help me tell a more detailed/accurate story, please let me know!
> 
> Also for anyone who might not know the title is from "I've Just Seen A Face" by the Beatles.


End file.
